Childhood Nemesis
by Have Socks. Will Travel
Summary: A long time ago, our two Grey Wardens met, and neither of them were the other's biggest fan
1. Chapter 1

_This is an idea that greatly amused me and my simple mind for hours upon hours. Happy Reading!_

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**C H I L D H O O D N E M E S I S**

Have Socks. Will Travel.

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He probably wouldn't have known her to be anyone of importance if he hadn't seen her arrival.

It was the sound of hoof beats that awoke him. It sounded as if every single mounted knight in Redcliffe had decided to take a few laps around the castle courtyard and had chosen to make it a huge, very loud brouhaha. Blearily, he lifted his head off of its pillow of straw and blinked warily at the loud procession circling outside. It was dark in the stable, especially in such a secluded corner as the one he had chosen to sleep in the night before, so he was barely able to muffle a yelp of discomfort when a harried stable boy pulled open the doors, letting sunlight spill in through the large opening.

"They're here a day early!" The boy shouted, startling more than a few of the resting horses.

The stable master frowned, both in confusion and in distaste at the boy's shouting. "No need to shout boy. My ears are fine. But who is here?" He added more as a side note. He wasn't at all one to keep up with castle rumors and instead contented himself with the quietest of Redcliffe's inhabitants: its horses.

"If your ears are fine, how did you manage to miss the great dirty sound of hooves outside?" The boy asked, but shook his head. "It doesn't matter. What matters is that Arl Eamon's guests are here!"

The stable master took a few seconds to digest the information, then jumped to action, understanding the weight of the situation. He waved the boy off, telling him to get a few stalls prepared, and _quickly_.

"Blasted Bryce Cousland: Always traveling with far too many horses—Like I'll have room for them all." He muttered grumpily under his breath, and then yelled to the stable at large: "ALISTAIR!"

Alistair tumbled off of his straw bale, where he had spent the night in relative comfort. Brushing bits of straw out of his hair, he swung his stall door open and snapped it shut, hurrying to heed the stable master's call. He clicked his heels to attention, but without the wooden heel of normal boots, it was a practice doomed to failure.

The stable master had to grin, despite his sudden foul mood. Alistair did that to people—made them smile whether they wanted to or not.

"Ah, "The stable master nodded his head superiorly at Alistair. "Thought you might be around. You always happen to show up when I need help."

Alistair had been thinking much the same thing, but with less of a favorable tone and more of a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"I'm a man of tradition," Alistair stated moodily, scratching the peach fuzz on his cheek, "Wouldn't do to depart from that now."

"I take it you're offering to help?" The stable master asked, reaching for a pitchfork to hand to Alistair. Alistair sighed, and took it, already feeling the blisters forming on his hands. The stable master furrowed his forest-like eyebrows, though, as he looked into the stall Alistair had recently vacated.

"Sir?" Alistair prompted, breaking the man out of his reverie. The stable master still had a hard grip on the pitch fork and Alistair was trying to pull it away, albeit unsuccessfully. A person didn't train horses and walk away unmuscled, and it was those muscles that Alistair was fighting against.

"It seems you did a pretty good job of spreading out that straw in there," The stable master grinned and Alistiar shrugged. A horse sniffed Alistair's head, mistaking the boy's hair for straw.

Alistair looked up at the beast inquisitively, but answered the stable master's unspoken question. "I'm a restless sleeper, sir. Plus, I'm allergic to straw." He let out a spine shattering sneeze to punctuate his words. Alistair had since stopped tugging on the pitchfork, and instead started swatting at the horse, which had begun to nibble at the boy's head. The horse, upon first taste of Alistair's hair, whinnied shrilly and butted Alistair with his head. Alistair could almost hear the horse's thoughts: "_You tricked me you fiend! You proffer straw but all I get are foul tasting sprouts!_"

"Off you go then," the stable master ordered, whacking Alistair in the back of the legs with the pole of the pitchfork. "I'm sure the kitchen can find more use of you than I can."

Alistair bolted away, thankful to finally be out of that place. He wasn't a soft boy, but he had soft palms—he found his knuckles to be more use in a fight—and he knew that the stable master would sooner or later find a job for him to do if he lingered. That reason and, as he ran out of the stable door, he could hear that blasted horse calling his fellows to arms.

"_He tricked me, that fiend! After him!"_

* * *

Once out of the stable, his b-line path straight to the nearest well was cut off by an arm.

"Whoa there partner," The voice said, and Alistair looked up to see the face of Donall, a boy a few years older than himself. The older boy blinked back surprise. "Alistair? And where are you headed off to so quickly?"

As he spoke, he dropped his arm. Alistair remained where he was. Donall was in training to become a knight and because of this Alistair practically hero worshiped him. It didn't help that he was the only knight-in-training that would actually stop and talk to him.

"Uhh—" Alistair began intelligently, but Donall cut him off.

"Where ever you're going, I suggest you redirect your path in that direction." He pointed to the boisterous display of carriages at the far end of the courtyard. "Our guests could use some help unpacking."

Alistair nodded in agreement, then looked down at his attire. Donall looked down too and cringed. The boy looked a mess and was hardly wearing the colorful purples, reds, and golds of the other boys lending a hand. He was hardly dressed to help out. He looked more likely to pick a pocket then to pick up a trunk and carry it where ordered.

Donall shrugged and waved a hand in dismissal. "Eh, no one will notice. And if they do, it'll add to the quaintness of Redcliffe—everyone throws in a hand to help: even mangy mongrels such as yourself." He laughed heartily, then pushed Alistair toward the collection of carriages. "Off you go then!"

Alistair was getting really tired of hearing that.

* * *

Donall had thought it a good idea to send Alistair to the procession of carriages, but when he arrived, Alistair realized that he had no idea what he was supposed to do. There seemed to be people scurrying everywhere, boxes piled high in their arms. It was organized chaos, Alistair decided, and at the same moment, he decided not to try to help. Instead he hurried around to the back of the carriages where there was less bustle and less opportunity for him to mess something up.

He froze when he heard the carriage swish door open. He looked back to see a girl, about his age, all made up in a fluffy green dress with a monstrous ribbons adorning her long curly hair. She looked at him with level, dark eyes which seemed to be looking at him appraisingly, as if sizing him up. She didn't seem to find much in him and instead cleared her throat.

"Well?" She asked, seeming to be waiting for something. Alistair had no idea what in the world she was waiting for.

"'Well' what?" Alistair asked, now turning himself to face her all the way. She gave him a disdainful look down her regal nose, and then sighed as if she had expected him to be such a simpleton.

"Aren't you going to drop the step for me?" She asked, gesturing to a spot below her. He noticed a sort of contraption folded below the carriage; it was metal, and he guessed that this was the step he was supposed to unfold. He grunted.

"I don't know how to do that. Why don't you get out the other side? I bet the step is unfolded for you over there."

The girl sighed. "No matter," she said with an air of resignation. She hopped out of the carriage with a graceful little bounce, landing on the balls of her pristine white shoes with a practiced refinement. Alistair got the feeling that she rather liked disembarking from carriages that way and it was only protocol that stopped her from jumping out every time.

She studied him for a minute, one eyebrow quirked, lips pursed.

"You smell bad." She said tactfully after a few seconds of appraisal. "And you have straw in your hair."

With a click of her tongue, a squishy looking puppy hopped out of the carriage and landed at her feet. She gathered the mound of brown fur up in her arms and with that, she spun on her heel and trotted off.

Alistair didn't know what to say.

* * *

The kitchen boys were all aflutter that night, a fact which Alistair couldn't stand. They were acting like girls, the thought. He poked his carrots moodily with his wooden fork as the boys around him cooed over the guests and the excitement that they had brought. He was going to get cooties if he stayed around them for much longer.

"Did you see the oldest boy? He did some serious maneuvers with that sword of his."

"And did you see the size of those horses? Can you imagine owning _one_ of those, let alone _six_ of them?"

"I hear that family has power second only to the king!"

"Did any of you catch a glimpse of the girl? She was a sight for sore eyes, I can tell you," One boy boldly proclaimed. All the other boys nodded and fell silent.

"Well I met her," Alistair busted out before he could stop himself. Sometimes his temper got the better of him. "And she wasn't anything special."

The boys all turned to him and began pestering him for details of his meeting with the lovely guest. But Alistair was fed up with their antics, so he sped out of the kitchen, refusing to answer any of the outrageous questions. His only regret was that he didn't grab his carrots as he left. What a waste of food.

* * *

Over the week that the guests stayed, Alistair tried his best to keep out of the way. Where ever there seemed to be a large amount of noise, Alistair steered clear of it. Whenever a large train of people started down the same hallway as him in the castle, he ducked into the nearest alcove. He wasn't in any hurry to meet up with the nobility again, lest they comment on his nose or his need of a haircut this time.

Aside from the occasional detour he was force to take, Alistair nearly forgot about the dignitaries that Arl Eamon was hosting. He continued on with his life in almost the same manner he always had. Mornings found him asleep in random spots in the castle and by midmorning he was already up to mischief with the kitchen boys. There were mud wars to be fought against the town's boys and pies to be stolen and consumed. He didn't have time to think of the girl who had bugged him a few days earlier. Slowly, but surely, she slipped out of his memory.

Until he ran into her in the castle courtyard.

* * *

The kitchen dogs were at his heels and the pie was in his hand. While at first he was frightened that the dogs would bite off a limb, he and his years of experience knew that the chains that held the dogs to the kitchen were sound. They would chase him for a few meters, but in the end it wouldn't matter: sooner or later the dogs would come to the end of their chain and they would be left snapping at air. Alistair sprinted off down the hallway, pie in his and a smile on his face. Success.

The way he took was the long way to the courtyard. Unfortunately, the dogs blocked the shorter way. However, Alistair didn't mind: going the shorter way to the courtyard would have taken him past Arl Eamon's office, and Arl Eamon had a way of sniffing out when Alistair was causing trouble. He trotted along the long passage, trailing his fingers along the wall, feeling every brick in the thick stone walls and thought salutary thoughts about himself and his excellent pie pinching abilities. When the corridor spat him out into the courtyard, he was feeling very sure of himself, on top of the world.

Then he froze, a familiar and unwelcome presence making itself announced, coming around the corner.

He wouldn't have even recognized her, if it weren't for the familiar hoity look she always wore. Her long hair, rather than framing her doll-like face, was pulled back with a slim, emerald green ribbon. It seemed she had swiped a pair of trousers from somewhere, as well as a brown, rough linen shirt. Alistair discovered where she might have procured the items, as a pair of the kitchen boys rounded the corner, too, laughing and similarly dressed. At first she didn't seem to notice him, and he began to slink off the path and into the grass, good mood gone sour. But then their eyes locked and Alistair saw something there that he couldn't turn down—a challenge. The girl closed the remaining steps between them, her mass of hair swishing behind her.

"What's that?" She asked, pointing to the item Alistair had in his hand. He looked down to see that she was pointing to the pie.

"Well," Alistair began, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "I call this 'pie.' So does most of the world. I'm surprised you don't know that. Don't they let you enjoy yourself at that castle of yours? Or is all you learn the art of looking down your nose?"

The girl brushed his jibe away with enough poise, but Alistair could see a bit of heat light up in the dark eyes and he knew he had landed a blow. She turned back to her two lackeys—Alistair reminded himself to pelt them with chalk later—and asked: "Wasn't the baker missing a pie when we just went there?"

The two goons nodded, glancing at the pie Alistair was holding. "Blueberry, I think." One of them added.

The girl turned back to Alistair. "Is that a blueberry pie?" She demanded.

"So you do know what a pie is! Good! I was beginning to think we had an unfeeling tranquil on our hands," Alistair cheered sarcastically.

"Do you talk to give your brain time to catch up? Because all I've heard is mumbling from you."

"I do not mumble!" Alistair exclaimed. "You merely got a taste of my sharp wit."

The girl snorted—and yet it still managed to look dignified; Alistair wondered momentarily how she pulled that off. "'Sharp wit' is hardly the term. I think that half-wit is more in your ballpark. And you still have yet to answer me. It that the cooks blueberry pie?"

Alistair was a bit confused. Just how old was this girl? She looked to be his age, but even he—and he considered himself a good speaker—couldn't construct sentences like that. It must have been some of her royal training.

"It may or may not be," Alistair sneered. This girl was nosy and irritating. Her eyes lingered on him and he felt like he was worthless. It wasn't something he liked.

"Take the pie back," the girl ordered.

Alistair scoffed. "What authority do you have to boss me around, bossy?" He thought that sounded dignified.

The girl's scary eyes gleamed. "I'm older than you. Take it back."

"And just how old are you, hmm?" Alistair asked, rolling his eyes.

"You first." She used the normal ploy, and Alistair fell for it hook, line and sinker.

"Ten," Alistair shot out. "Almost eleven."

"I turned eleven last Thursday. I'm older, and I'm telling you to take the pie back."

"No way. You're not that much older. I don't have to listen to you." Alistair scoffed.

The girl fumed, as did Alistair. She was being so bossy! It was just a pie; she shouldn't be working up such a sweat over it. That girl had to have had the biggest justice meter on the planet.

"I outrank you," the girl snapped. "I am your superior, and I am ordering you to take the pie back. Now."

He was angry. Very angry. Dangerously angry. His hands clenched into fists and he stood rose to his tiptoes, prepared to fight. No one had ever pulled the "rank" card on him before and it rankled his very own justice meter. For the first time in his life, Alistair wished he could pull his trump card. He wished that he could yell to the girl that _he_ was the _King's_ _son_. He wanted to see the reaction on her face when she realized just who she had been trying to order around all this time.

But in all honesty, Alistair had no idea who this girl was, or what her status of nobility was. For all Alistair knew, she was the daughter of the King, come to spend the week with her Uncle. All Alistair had to judge her off of was the seemingly endless parade of carriages she had come with, as well as her hoity air. No, he defiantly couldn't stand it if he threw out his title as the son of the King, then have her laugh and call his bluff. He was only the illegitimate son, after all.

"Give. It. Back." She said again, menacingly. She didn't act like an eleven year old, Alistair thought briefly.

No, he defiantly couldn't throw his rank at her, so he threw the next best thing: the pie. It landed squarely on her doll face. Alistair didn't even attempt to hide the smile of delight that grew when he saw the spectacle. There was even some in her thick regal hair. His grin widened.

It was a grin that slowly melted off his face when he saw the murderous rage that seemed to be expelling the pie bits like some sort of wonky cleaning spell. As the pie tin clanged to the ground, Alistair began running earnestly in the opposite direction.

He didn't get far when a chunk of mud it him smack-dab in the middle of his head.

That mud was more efficient than throwing gloves at a person when it came to offering a challenge. As the mud slid down his head and down the back of his shirt, Alistair turned to face the girl. She had some wicked aim, he'd give her that. But she was smaller than him. Taller, but smaller. Her arms legs looked like toothpicks and her arms thinner than that. Plus, she had a sweet face: she didn't look used to fighting. She shouldn't be that hard to take down, he decided. They matched glowers before they ran at each other, bellowing war cries. The meet, arms already flailing, with a smack.

At first, things were going well for him. He was defiantly the stronger of the two. His first couple of punches landed where he had aimed. But after the first few strikes, he realized that it was she that had the advantage. Obviously she wasn't used to male fighting, which, even if it didn't appear to be so, had rules. She fought dirty. If there was mud to grab, she flung it. If there was a rock to use, she snagged it. Her teeth managed to find the soft part on the inside of his hand. Alistair was used to throwing punches, ducking some, and then retreating to wait for his next best opportunity. Obviously this girl didn't follow the same rules. There was no retreat. It was all forward motion. She was undoubtedly used to fighting, Alistair amended his initial judgment. And darn good at it too.

It was a lucky hit and a scream from two stories up that ended the fight. Pulling his fist back over his shoulder, Alistair tensed to jab at the girl with his full strength. It was then that above him, Arl Eamon's wife screamed.

"ALISTAIRRRRR!" She yelled, throwing up the window and leaning out.

The girl looked up at the Arlessa, distracted momentarily. But Alistiar wasn't distracted. The Arl's wife screamed his name often enough that he had learned to tune her out. He knew that his would be his last moment, his last chance to prove himself. And, arm still at the ready, he brought his arm forward, landing a punch just under the girl's left, dark, obnoxious, scary eye.

The weight of the blow sent her spiraling backwards, spilling onto the cobblestones without her usual grace and finesse. It was a fact that made the victory all the sweeter, and, even as the guards dragged him away, he cheered. He smiled sweetly at the girl, who sat up, her left eye squeezed shut, and she glared at him. It was a wasted attempt, what with only one eye in operation.

"THAT'S IT! EAMON! TOMORROW WE ARE PACKING THIS CHILD OFF TO THE CHANTRY! HE'S GONE TO FAR THIS TIME, PICKING ON MY GUESTS!" The Arlessa screeched, then the window snapped shut and only muffled sounds could be heard from the royal suite.

"I hope you enjoyed that pie!" Alistair shouted to the girl, who was being helped to her feet by a collection of castle residents, "Because the victory over here is sure tasting pretty sweet!"

The glare she shot him was undeniably nasty. But at that point, Alistair didn't care and let the guards drag him off.

* * *

The day the carriage drove away was counted amongst one of his more victorious days. He made sure to wake early enough to see the contingent of carriages and horses off. He scanned the carriages, and sure enough, there was a doll face peeking through one of the curtains. He smiled at her and gave her a thumbs up. Scowling, the girl snapped the curtain closed as her horses started off. But she wasn't quick enough with the curtain to hide the huge purple lump that was forming under her left eye.

He waved until the carriages were across the bridge and around the bend. Donall had stepped in line next to him and Alistiar nudged him.

"Just who was that girl?" He asked Donall, and the older boy looked down at him.

"Why?" Donall smiled. "Do you fancy her?"

Alistair's face drained of blood and became as white as the snowy hens that had chased him out of the coops on more than one occasion. "No, never," he choked.

Then he grinned wryly.

"I was just admiring the black eye that she was sporting."

* * *

_Hmmm… I was seriously considering having it flash to Alistair all grown up and having him figure out that his Warden Commander was the same person he had bested in a fist fight all those years ago. That would have been an interesting plot to write._

_Well, how did you like it? Did you think 'twas awful? Did you think it had potential? Was it all you ever hoped and dreamed of? Please leave me your thoughts by reviewing! I will love you forever and ever and ever and ever and ever._

_-Have Socks Will Travel._


	2. Chapter 2

Because I had readers that wanted it, here is the second chapter that I hope I won't butcher. :D please please please please. I don't know why I am so apprehensive about writing this. I just am.

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**C H I L D H O O D N E M E S I S**

Chapter Two

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The name "Cousland" didn't mean anything to him until he realized that it was the name of a noble family.

It actually took Leliana, a foreigner, to point that fact out to him. Aside from feeling a bit silly that he, a native to the land, had no idea who the evidently very famous Cousland family was, he felt a bit of understanding spring up in him. Being a noble explained a plethora of his unofficial leader's various ticks and fixations. Why in the world she would bother to bathe once a week when they were obviously going to fight another battle and get grimy again? Duh, she was a noble. Why did she insist on eating everything on plates rather than just right off the spit? She was a noble. Why was her tent slightly taller than his? She was a noble. That one fact answered pretty much every one of Alistair's questions about his fellow warden.

But she didn't _act_ like a noble, Alistair kept thinking to himself. She did all of the things nobles did—at least when they were stuck out in the wilderness and were limited to wooden spoons instead of silver ones—but there was something so obviously un-noble about her. At first he was afraid that Leliana was just pulling his leg. But the more he dwelled on it, some of his chantry-learned history stirred from its dusty covering and came to the forefront of his mind: he did remember the name Cousland being important. Important forwhat he had no idea. But that family _was_ important he decided. And _important_ was the same as _noble_ in his book.

Alistair had no idea what nobles were really like, but he had a preconceived notion about them from his one encounter with them—Arl Eamon and Bann Teagan hardly counted as encounters—and his friend didn't seem to fit into any of his ideals. Nobles were bossy and insisted on ordering him to do things he didn't know how to do. His warden co-captain was bossy, but she never asked him to put up her tent. Plus, Alistair reasoned, she had every right to be bossy. She was in charge of this whole blight-conquering operation after all.

He even tried approaching her one night at the campfire, to talk about her birthright as the child of someone important and how ridiculous it was that she was noble because all nobles were hoity and liked commenting about straw in hair and flinging mud at people and she was not at all like that. But she brushed him aside, biting into a piece of venison and graced him with a single phrase about how she was on an eating rampage and it could not be helped nor halted. Grey Warden or not, nobles did not eat like she did, he decided firmly.

* * *

When she ordered the camp in general to pack up and move out, Alistair was quick to obey. It meant that his friend had a plan and they were going to see some action. He was feeling a bit rusty from sitting for so long at one campground and, as peace loving as he was, this templar was getting antsy to knock a few Darkspawn heads. He quickly deconstructed his lopsided tent and packed it in with his bedroll, next to a few of the action figures his leader had given him. No, his leader was much nicer than the regular nobles, he decided then, petting one of his golem statuettes. The only things nobles ever gave were nasty looks and a face full of mud.

After Zevran had been dragged away from the local bakery and its pretty hostess, the crew was off and headed toward their next, greatest destination. His leader had yet to tell them what the plan was, so while the rest of the entourage dawdled on the trail, Alistair trotted up next to his leader and greeted her with a warm, Alistair smile.

"I take it we're not off to find my dream horse?" Alistair said by way of greeting, and smiled more widely when his friend smiled too.

"Nope, we're off to Redcliffe this time." She said quietly. She was a soft-spoken person, aside from the times when she was bellowing orders. Her small frame hid the secretly large voice box that she possessed.

The fact that they were headed to his designated hometown made his spirits soar. "We're taking a rather direct route, are we not?" Alistair commented. It was true. From Loithering they had gone straight to the Brecilian forest, then from there to the Circle tower. They were taking the most directly West route that they could. There was no backtracking in this camp, Alistair decided. It would be a crime if they wore two grooves in the same road.

The other warden laughed. "Some call it efficient. I call it laziness. I'd rather not walk this land twice over if I only have to do it once, you know?"

"Indeed," Alistair agreed, though he wasn't too opposed to walking around the country. There was so much to see. Though, it would be nice if he had a horse to carry his stuff, he decided, shuffling his backpack uncomfortably on his shoulders.

"So…" Alistair's leader began, hiking her pack up higher onto her shoulders, "You said you lived in Redcliffe, right?"

Alistair nodded, face screwing up into a boyish grin that he hadn't managed to escape, even in manhood. "That's right! Arl Eamon raised me." A thought struck him, and he asked: "Have you ever gone to Redcliffe? Certainly your family was important enough to call on Arl Eamon once and a while."

The warden shrugged. "I went there when I was eleven."

Alistair quickly did the math. "That would make me around eleven, too. I guess I wouldn't have seen you. I was at the chantry at that point." He was morbidly depressed. It would have been a tale of the ages if they had actually met before.

"I only went there once. My father wouldn't let me go back a second time."

This shocked poor Alistair and his mental image of his flawless leader. "By the Maker, why not?"

But Morrigan had spotted a few Darkspawn in the trees, so there was no time for Alistair to hear just why his friend had never been banished from Redcliffe. Instead, he got to listen to the darkspawn, their ugly grunts and Sten's amazing war cry. Honestly, Alistair thought as he galloped toward the bulk of the battle. There was no need to kill the Archdemon with a sword: All they needed to do was get Sten close enough to it to yell at it and its head would be separated from its snaky neck in split seconds. With that thought, Alistair ran into the midst of the enemy and fell into the swing of things with a swoosh of his sword.

* * *

For a day that had started off so sublimely perfect, it proved itself in a hurry to hit rock bottom. After the Darkspawn attack, their supply of healing potions ran out. There was little to loot off of the Darkspawn bodies. The dog ate Morrigan's herb supply and Leliana discovered that one of her braids had been chopped off, throwing them both into a foul mood. Their fearless leader recovered her backpack from the bottom of a stream where it had been pushed in the middle of the battle. All of her essentials for survival were sopping wet and her pack smelled of wet dog for the remainder of the hike—which wasn't a short one, to be sure. As if that weren't enough, the heavens opened up their doors widely and, as if the Maker were draining his bathtub, a torrent of water began to nail the walkers.

By the time the leader called for them to stop and set up camp, the only people who were in a relatively good mood were Sten and the Dog, though the dog hardly counted as a person. Most were covered from head to toe with mud, dog fur, and leaves from a freak wind attack which stirred up a long dormant cluster of fallen tree foliage right as they walked through it.

The camp that night was a sorry affair. The motley band pitched their ragged tents atop a hill, with their commander's being the sorriest sight of all. Her tent seemed to be set up only for show, as there was no way in the world that she was going to be able to sleep in it, unless she wanted her own personal rainstorm inside of her tent. She was going to have to sleep in Leliana's tent, a fact which made her mood worse, because—as far as Alistair could see—the only thing they had in common was the length of their hair. (Which was another thing that made his leader so different from nobles—they all kept their hair dangerously long and somehow lustrous.)

Alistair took it upon himself to be the boy to fix everyone's problems. He hated discomfort, and his biggest discomfort was when people walked around with slits for eyes, sighing heavy sighs, and looking all-around like corpses come back from the dead to slake their revenge on the person who had walked over their grave. If there was any way to get people out of their foul moods, it would be better for everyone, and Alistair aimed to make this happen.

He busied himself helping Leliana with a troublesome tent pole then found some herbs for Wynne to use as salves. Sten needed to borrow his whetstone and Zevran asked him if there was any way he could get a bucket of water. The dog begged him for a scratch under the chin and Morrigan was as unresponsive as ever to his desire to help.

Their leader was just as quick to brush Alistair's help away as Morrigan was. It was a practice that confused Alistair, as most of the time his leader was all too willing to let Alistair do all of the grunt work.

"I've got it Alistair," She snapped when he tried to help her tie her tent poles together. She elbowed him hard in the ribs and he grunted, taking a step back on impact. As well as hiding an incredible voice box, her small frame also packed a surprising punch.

"Are you sure you don't need help?" Alistair asked, rubbing the sore spot on his side.

"I said I got it." She answered. "Go find someone else to help." She gave a sigh of resignation that stirred a memory in Alistair's brain, but he couldn't place where he had heard it before. "I'm sorry about your side."

"'S okay." Alistair mumbled, and then walked off to find something else to do. His leader was being unnaturally bossy and cranky, he thought. Almost as bossy as—

He cut himself off, not wanting to think about the bossy little girl from his childhood.

There was no way.

* * *

A few days later found the tiny camp in considerably better spirits. Together, Leliana and Zevran had acquired a side of pork that had been cooked and enjoyed, which was a nice break from the normal rations. The sun was low in the sky, disappearing into a cover of high pine trees. Stars were starting to freckle the sky and the moon seemed to be warming up to take over the Sun's job. It was a calm night, which everyone was thankful for. They had been attacked by a large clot of Darkspawn and hadn't been able to drive them all off. Fortunately, the Darkspawn weren't the brightest creatures on the face of the planet, and when the group learned that they wouldn't be able to defeat their foe, they melted into the trees. Needless to say, the Darkspawn weren't able to find them.

They were still camped atop the hill. While they were in a hurry to get to Redcliffe they kept being stalled by injuries, Darkspawn attacks and the occasional bout of laziness from members of the party. The only one in a foul mood was their illustrious leader. She was obviously impatient to get a move on and get off the hill, but Leliana had rolled her ankle when she had secured the pork and she was in no condition to walk. Edgy as she was, she didn't push the matter, but instead walked around camp swinging her swords and giving passersby a dirty look. Alistair tried to act like this was normal and he chanted his mantra over and over to himself.

* * *

On their third day on the hill, they packed up their tents and set off. Alistair felt contented when he realized that his Grey Warden buddy was in a considerably better mood than she had been all week long while they had been camped on the hill. She seemed to walk off with springs attached to her worn, but immaculate boots and there seemed to be clothes pins keeping her mouth turned up into a bright smile.

She was in such a good mood, in fact, that when Alistair asked her to spar with him when they set up camp that night, she agreed. Normally they were too worn out after a day of hiking to even consider sparring at camp, but they had been taking it easy that day, thanks to Leliana's healing ankle. Wynne could heal cuts and scrapes, but achy bones and hurting joints were natural things that Wynne could do nothing for. And everyone in camp, Sten included, would have rather faced the archdemon in a wedding dress than listen to Leliana complain all day.

So it was great litheness and full energy that his leader joined him in sparring. They wrapped their swords with cloth to keep them from clanging and alerting every Darkspawn within hearing range as to where they were.

The two shook hands, as was custom, and bowed at each other, the picture of friends about to try to whack each other's head off in a friendly duel-to-the-_almost_-death.

As Alistair approached, his leader wrinkled her nose. "Blegh," She commented, sniffing the air thoughtfully. "You smell bad. And you have straw in your hair. You need a bath." What masterful tact.

Alistair, feeling the residual sting that came from hearing those words for the second time in his life, was about to retort that there was nothing he could do about smelling bad: they fought battles every day, sweat was a natural human body function, and unlike some people, he wasn't a clean freak. And _she_ smelled bad too—Especially her armor. Had she ever even washed the inside of it before? But he was halted in his retorting tracks when his friend suddenly leaned down to pick up some mud off the marshy ground. With a practiced rotate of the shoulder, she flung the mud in a clean arc, and it landed with a plop on the small fire that Zevran was trying to light.

"No fire!" She called, and Zevran glowered at her. "We're being tailed by Darkspawn."

Alistair frowned at the mud. She had wicked aim. And he had only thought that about one person. One person in particular. Alistair frowned, and his friend, who had turned back to him, began baiting him.

"Come on Alistiar," She teased, crouching in fighting position, weapons held at the ready. "You've tried beating me every day for the last four months. Maybe you'll finally be able to beat me now. On the off chance that you beat me, I'll call you Ser Alistair for a day."

Alistair considered his Warden counterpart seriously, a frown creasing his forever happy brow. He threw himself into the fight, still musing on the woman in front of him. She certainly was a total different person when she had sharp pointy objects in her hands.

They were fighting sans helmets, so Alistair was able to get a pretty good look at his opponent. Even as she began swinging at him he pictured the girl from his childhood. He hadn't forgotten what she looked like. He ducked a blow, then considered the woman before him. She had short hair, pulled back, as per usual, but he noticed for the first time that the bits that fell in front of her face were curling. She had the same litheness of the girl who had jumped from a carriage so long ago without getting her pristine white shoes dirty. Now the shoes had turned to boots that were still well kept. There was the cocky grin and the skinny but strong arms. If he could take an eraser and remove the scars crossing her face like whicker and the broken nose she had acquired in their various fights, he couldn't help but picture a doll like face, surrounded by a halo of thick, curly hair. From there, it didn't take much to picture her fixed up in a poofy green dress and immaculate white shoes.

Alistair struck out with his sword, and she caught in on her own, spinning out of his range and letting Alistiar catch a glimpse of the back of her head. As he suspected, there was a dingy green ribbon holding back her hair. Alistair groaned, allowing himself a moment to pinch his eyes shut in frustration.

"What's up with you Alistiar?" His partner taunted. "Can't keep your eyes open." As if to prove her wrong, he opened his eyes to find himself blocking her sword with his shield, her face a few inches away from his.

And the eyes! Alistair remembered them now: The eyes that teased, the eyes that judged; the eyes that scrutinized him for a split second then moved onto another target. They were the same, doe-like, dark eyes that had regarded him all those years ago. His own eyes flicked to the left eye, and there it was: a light mark, not quite a scar, but a mark that a deep bruise might leave. A bruise like a black eye.

A smile crept onto his face, which startled him.

"Hey," he asked, pushing her away with his shield. A normal person would have fallen over, but she managed to leap back, just out of the reach of his sword.

"Is for horses, and cows like you," She answered, circling him, looking for the best time to strike.

"Your fatal trip to Redcliffe: did the reason you're not allowed to go back include mud and a little boy who stole a pie?"

Her eyes narrowed, taking in Alistair. She was scary like that, Alistair thought. Forget Sten yelling the Archdemon into submission. Their leader's dagger eyes would work as well as any sword in dispatching the fiend. The eyes considered him for a moment, and Alistair saw a glimmer of something there—was it recognition?—before it was gone and the eyes were back to their normal scariness.

"No," was her stoic answer to his question. Alistair noticed that her scary eyes refused to meet his.

"Oh, come on," he pestered, keeping his eyes trained on her in case she made a sudden lunge-stab move, as she was liable to do. "Are you sure it didn't end something like this?"

He suddenly lunged with his sword as he shrugged his shield off of his arm. While she fended off his sword, he swung his fist around and made a connection underneath her right eye. She flailed her arms like an unhappy windmill, as she fell to the ground. Her weapons sailed out of her hands where they skittered to the swampy ground a few steps away from her. She had landed smartly on her backside, legs splayed in front of her and palms catching the dirt before she smacked her back.

Alistair bit back a laugh when he saw her there on the ground, but when he realized the he had just brained his leader, his lip biting turned more into concern than humor.

His leader sat there on the ground for a few seconds, shaking the stars out of her eyes and blinking back the natural tears that came when one was clobbered in the face. Alistair was about to beg forgiveness and offer his entire stock of sweets he had been secretly toting around in recompense, when his Grey Warden comrade tilted her head to look up at him, smiling.

"Yeah," she said, still blinking furiously. "My Redcliffe trip did end like that. But if I do recall, the blow was on the other side."

She felt her face with dusty fingers, forehead creasing, "And a whole lot harder." She added.

Alistair, who was more than pleased that a) his partner didn't seem mad at him and b) she wouldn't be needing his sweet stash, offered a hand to help her to her feet. "Well, we couldn't have our leader walking around without being able to see."

She laughed, and shook his hand. "Congratulations on your first time beating me Alistair," she offered.

Alistair shook a finger, slightly bewildered at the turn of events. "That would be _Ser_ Alistiar I do believe, and, no ma'am. I do believe that is the second time I have beat you. What do I get for that?"

His leader's happy eyes instantly unsheathed their daggers, and she began scowling at him again. Alistair stepped back, hands up in a noncommittal shrug. "Hey, I'm an honest guy, just trying to make an honest living."

The full on deadly look she shot his way told him that he would be lucky to be called "Ser Alistair," and it was futile to suggest any further boons. She gave him one last angry look, as if she didn't like the reminder that she had been pummled twice by this same man, and stalked off, not looking behind her. She snatched her weapons up as she walked past them, stalking off to find something to put on her swelling red eye.

* * *

_I need to find a rock, I need to find a rock, I need to find a rock_, was Alistair's next thought. Without a doubt, he had been hit too hard in the head, and that was why his leader was pretending to be the girl from his past.

_I need a rock, I need a rock, I need a rock_, Alistair shortened his mantra as he frantically looked around the campsite. He was sure that if he whacked his head once or twice then he would forget that he ever thought that his illustrious leader was ever that spawn-of-the-archdemon child that had ruined his childhood. He had seen the proof for himself. But he refused to believe it. There was no way. He'd have to reconsider all of his preconceived notions about nobles, and if there was anything Alistair hated worse than people walking around like corpses, it was having to rethink what he had already stamped as a truth in his brain.

His brain, which had been clear in battle, was fighting a mini war against itself. He didn't want to think that his Grey Warden-slash-best-friend-slash-leader was a hoity noble. But it was all the worse that he now had to think of her as the impish girl that had tried to make him return a pie and fold down her step on the carriage. Better to forget everything.

Yes, a rock was the best bet he had.

* * *

From across the camp, his leader watched him scamper to and fro across the wide open field where they had sparred. She had a cool cloth draped across her eye, and in the still night air, she could hear Alistair chanting.

"Rock, rock, rock, rock!" he seemed to be saying.

She furrowed her eyebrows—but quickly stopped when it moved the skin under her eye—and looked down at her dog, who was panting contentedly next to her. She scratched his ears and leaned back against her tent.

"What in the world is he saying, boy?" She asked, and her mabari, who had been sniffing a plant that Morrigan would have liked to own, picked up a rock and dropped it in his master's lap.

She rolled her eyes. "That's what I thought."

Even all these years later that man was still the strangest person she had ever met.

* * *

Okay…. So how did that go? This chapter took me forever to write. Two stinking days. T.T Do you know how annoying it was for the other warden not to have a name? Blegh. I never want to see the word "counterpart" or any of its synonyms again.

About Alistair's characterization: I gave him a sort of Duncan-esque admiration for his Grey Warden counter—… _BUDDY_! If you think about it, it fits. Alistair is a loyal person, almost to dog-ish proportions, so it logically follows that he would have built up the only other Grey Warden and his leader to be this epic, awesome, fantastic, all the other positive adjectives that are like awesome, person. :D Oh, and about the rock deal. More than likely, he wouldn't have bashed his head in with it. That was more of a frantic _Oh_-_my_-_goodness_-_the_-_world_-_as-I-know_-_it_-_just_-_shifted-and-now-I-need-something-to-take-my-mind-off-of-it_ search for something to occupy his mind. Still, I imagine he would have kept his new pet rock handy, just in case. C:

Please review! And tell me that I didn't waste my time on this chapter. Please please please please please. C:


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